


Goodneighbor’s Mayor Throws in with Mysterious Stranger

by Ponderosa



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: F/M, Interviews, Journalism, M/M, in-universe journalism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-14
Updated: 2016-01-14
Packaged: 2018-05-13 21:43:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5718181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ponderosa/pseuds/Ponderosa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Hancock has a reputation that precedes him, and it’s only recently become overshadowed by that of his lover. Who’s the lucky person to have caught the mayor’s eye? Rumor has it that it’s none other than the Vault Dweller himself, star of a recent Publick Occurrences interview. (A reprint of the issue is available in our Diamond City headquarters.)</p><p>[Story is only about 1600 words long, but there are two versions so you can pick your preferred player character gender.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hancock/Male Sole Survivor version

**Author's Note:**

> Since I've played through as both genders, I've included a version for each as different chapters. I headcanon Hancock as bi, but you can pick your poison when it comes to pronouns.

[A warning: This interview contains salacious details which may offend some readers.]

They say Goodneighbor’s mayor is the most charming ghoul in all of the Commonwealth, a fair and just leader of a sinner’s town, and a man you absolutely do not want to cross. John Hancock has a reputation that precedes him, and it’s only recently become overshadowed by that of his lover. Who’s the lucky person to have caught the mayor’s eye? Rumor has it that it’s none other than the Vault Dweller himself, star of a recent Publick Occurrences interview. (A reprint of the issue is available in our Diamond City headquarters.)

For those of you who think the streets of Goodneighbor are dangerous today, ask any resident and they’ll tell you that before Mayor Hancock’s rule, it was unbridled mayhem. No one denies that crime remains commonplace, but it’s an eye-for-an-eye in Goodneighbor these days, and if you prey on the undeserving, you may not make it back out of the gates.

Hancock raised a militia to claim his title; men who now diligently patrol the town. With that kind of sway, one expects the mayor to own every room he walks into, to take up space with personality and posture, to sprawl as he listens to the woes of his people.

It isn’t like that at all.

In fact, inviting us to the Old State House for this interview, Hancock perches himself somewhat delicately on the edge of a low, worn sofa. It’s the middle of the day and the curtains are drawn, deepening the shadows around the room. While it’s never easy to tell with a ghoul, the inhaler in his hands and the faraway look in his eyes speaks of a strong, sustained high.

He’s very open about his chem-addiction: “Chems are an escape for most folks, myself included. These days though, I get high because I enjoy it.” Hancock smiles gently and offers a hit of a low-dosage stimulant that in his words are, “like Jet’s mellow little brother. It’s a real nice slow burn.”

Asking him why he agreed to sit down with Publick Occurrences brings an edge back to his even gaze. Despite the lofty speeches he regularly delivers to the citizens of Goodneighbor, Hancock isn’t eager to draw attention to himself. He fiddles with the inhaler, flipping it casually over his knuckles. “Oh, I don’t know,” he begins, and eases back, settling more comfortably against the cushions. “About time for it, I suppose. Besides, there’s some shit even a ghoul like me wants to brag about.”

In alluding to his relationship with the sole survivor of local Vault 111, Hancock looks downright smug. He doesn’t elaborate when prodded, instead saying, “When you’re human you spend a lot of time thinking about how not to die, or, in my case, how to do it pleasurably. I wrecked my veins long before turning into a ghoul. Inhalants might be the best thing to have happened to the post-war chem scene.” He pauses to take a fresh hit, vapor escaping from his mouth to curl into the air around him. “Even if this one smells and tastes like a fucking tire fire. Everything has a price though, don’t it.”

He tosses the inhaler to the table, where it lands with a hollow plastic rattle among a scatter of other paraphenalia. He smooths his hands down his front, the roughness of his palms dragging over the tattered ruffles of his shirt. His slim frame seems in proportion to his limbs and not a byproduct of rads wasting away former bulk. That natural leanness makes it tough even to a reporter’s eye to gauge how long he’s been a ghoul. Irma, the proprietress of the infamous Memory Den is one of the few to confirm she knew Hancock when he was human, but has refused to go on the record to say anything other than, “John’s always had style; don’t let him say otherwise. He’s a looker now, and he was a veritable knock-out back when he had hair to pull on.”

Meanwhile, John Hancock seems oblivious to his own charm as he folds his hands in his lap and crosses his long legs at the ankle. The distinctive boots that match his crimson frock coat have the shine of a recent polish at the toe.

There’s a sly wickedness to his tone when he makes a point of asking, “So what sells papers in Diamond City these days besides chems in the streets, crime in the seats, and dishing all the dirty details _Mayor McDonough’s_ hiding?

“Nah, don't answer. I know why you're really here. Of course a tell-all exposé on why some pre-war hot shit would shack up with one of my kind will rake it in.” Hancock’s direct when he cares to be, and as a publication dedicated to the truth there's no denying that this issue will end up in the hands of a wider readership. “Well fuck if I can explain it,” he continues. His gravelly laugh spreads through the room like the dust from a mini nuke. “Most humans who want to walk on the wild side with a ghoul are looking to feed a fetish, you feel me. But my guy? Hell, he said all the right things and made me believe it. All the way down to my fucking bones.”

Hancock stares into the middle distance again. It’s not the drugs this time putting a dreamy look on his face, it’s the aura of the truly smitten, which seems uncomfortably rare these days.

“Handsome, deadly, persuasive-- there aren't too many people who can lay claim to all three without some serious downside. Take that freak Pickman for example. Yeah, you know what I’m talking about. My guy though, he earned some respect when he walked into this town and didn’t take shit from that loser Finn, but this? I never saw this coming,” Hancock waves a hand vaguely in the air around him. “Lost my heart in the only way I wasn't expecting.”

From her post near the door, his bodyguard lights up a cigarette. Fahrenheit has her own reputation, and offers a brusque, “Don’t look at me; I don’t care who the boss fucks.” After taking a long drag, she adds: “But I’ll admit he does a good job of watching Hancock’s back when I’m not around.”

Self-appointed or not, Goodneighbor’s mayor has been spending a lot of time away from the town. “It's better for everyone in the long term,” he explains. “When you're in charge, getting too comfortable means problems don't get taken care of.”

There's the sense that he's talking about the problems in Diamond City, where missing persons and the synth threat go virtually ignored by the government.

“Besides, look at me. This is getting embarrassing. Gotta get that thrill of a new drug outta my system. Fahrenheit might not give a shit who I bring to bed, but people in town are getting a little too nosy.” Hancock scrapes his teeth over his bottom lip. His black eyes narrow to slivers. “Better to air all the dirty details with you lot instead of being stopped all the time for shit that ain't important.”

Dirty details hadn't been the goal in requesting this interview but it's where Hancock offers the most access. Whether or not they're welcome inside the walls of DC, ghouls are a permanent fixture of the commonwealth, and their resistance to rads make them an important part of trade and commerce. And though some ghouls have been around since the war, our doctors still don't know much about how they tick. It might come as a surprise to some to even know that ghouls have a sex drive.

“People always want to know what's in your pants. When you're a ghoul they got all kinds of questions about what still works, and what doesn't.”

Hancock’s mouth pulls to one side in amusement. He gestures to his groin. “Rads fixed some of this right up, to be honest. Didn't do a whole lot of bumping uglies when I was human and getting high. Sucking dick on the other hand--”

He trails off and grabs a carton of cigarettes that's clean enough to be worth a few hundred caps. He rips open a fresh pack and pats down his pockets for a light. Fahrenheit steps over to produce one seemingly straight from her fingertips. The way Hancock brings the stick to his lips goes beyond suggestive. “If you like getting a mouthful of cock, it makes for an easy way to score. When you’ve ditched your gag reflex by going ghoul and don't need to breathe as often, well, you can imagine.”

Holding the cigarette between his fingers, Hancock rubs the edge of his thumb against his lip. “Bet your readers don't know much about what it's like to fuck a ghoul, do they. Diamond City likes so much to pretend it's the be all end all of the civilized.” He's quiet for a time, the crackle of burning tobacco the only sound in the room for a stretch. “Humans can be so fragile.”

So what is it like?

“Upsides, downsides. For the most part it just takes a little longer to get the juices going.” Hancock launches into the sort of detail our editor didn't feel comfortable printing. Finishing his cigarette down to the filter, he adds a crude, “Not needing to eat much is nice. Means the pipes stay pretty clear, if you catch my drift.”

While the messier parts of the act might be what the public wants to know the most about, the bigger question is: What happens over time? Relationships between ghouls and humans by virtue of lifespan simply aren't made to last.

“The man went from surviving the war in a freezer to raising up a whole chain of settlements. If anyone is going to find a way to live forever, or hell, ditch the smooth skin and come over to my side, it's him.” Hancock reaches for a different inhaler on the table. “And if not-- If things go south, I'll find something to numb the pain.”


	2. Hancock/Female Sole Survivor version

[A warning: This interview contains salacious details which may offend some readers.]

They say Goodneighbor’s mayor is the most charming ghoul in all of the Commonwealth, a fair and just leader of a sinner’s town, and a man you absolutely do not want to cross. John Hancock has a reputation that precedes him, and it’s only recently become overshadowed by that of his lover. Who’s the lucky person to have caught the mayor’s eye? Rumor has it that it’s none other than the Vault Dweller himself, star of a recent Publick Occurrences interview. (A reprint of the issue is available in our Diamond City headquarters.)

For those of you who think the streets of Goodneighbor are dangerous today, ask any resident and they’ll tell you that before Mayor Hancock’s rule, it was unbridled mayhem. No one denies that crime remains commonplace, but it’s an eye-for-an-eye in Goodneighbor these days, and if you prey on the undeserving, you may not make it back out of the gates.

Hancock raised a militia to claim his title; men who now diligently patrol the town. With that kind of sway, one expects the mayor to own every room he walks into, to take up space with personality and posture, to sprawl as he listens to the woes of his people.

It isn’t like that at all.

In fact, inviting us to the Old State House for this interview, Hancock perches himself somewhat delicately on the edge of a low, worn sofa. It’s the middle of the day and the curtains are drawn, deepening the shadows around the room. While it’s never easy to tell with a ghoul, the inhaler in his hands and the faraway look in his eyes speaks of a strong, sustained high.

He’s very open about his chem-addiction: “Chems are an escape for most folks, myself included. These days though, I get high because I enjoy it.” Hancock smiles gently and offers a hit of a low-dosage stimulant that in his words are, “like Jet’s mellow little brother. It’s a real nice slow burn.”

Asking him why he agreed to sit down with Publick Occurrences brings an edge back to his even gaze. Despite the lofty speeches he regularly delivers to the citizens of Goodneighbor, Hancock isn’t eager to draw attention to himself. He fiddles with the inhaler, flipping it casually over his knuckles. “Oh, I don’t know,” he begins, and eases back, settling more comfortably against the cushions. “About time for it, I suppose. Besides, there’s some shit even a ghoul like me wants to brag about.”

In alluding to his relationship with the sole survivor of local Vault 111, Hancock looks downright smug. He doesn’t elaborate when prodded, instead saying, “When you’re human you spend a lot of time thinking about how not to die, or, in my case, how to do it pleasurably. I wrecked my veins long before turning into a ghoul. Inhalants might be the best thing to have happened to the post-war chem scene.” He pauses to take a fresh hit, vapor escaping from his mouth to curl into the air around him. “Even if this one smells and tastes like a fucking tire fire. Everything has a price though, don’t it.”

He tosses the inhaler to the table, where it lands with a hollow plastic rattle among a scatter of other paraphenalia. He smooths his hands down his front, the roughness of his palms dragging over the tattered ruffles of his shirt. His slim frame seems in proportion to his limbs and not a byproduct of rads wasting away former bulk. That natural leanness makes it tough even to a reporter’s eye to gauge how long he’s been a ghoul. Irma, the proprietress of the infamous Memory Den is one of the few to confirm she knew Hancock when he was human, but has refused to go on the record to say anything other than, “John’s always had style; don’t let him say otherwise. He’s a looker now, and he was a veritable knock-out back when he had hair to pull on.”

Meanwhile, John Hancock seems oblivious to his own charm as he folds his hands in his lap and crosses his long legs at the ankle. The distinctive boots that match his crimson frock coat have the shine of a recent polish at the toe.

There’s a sly wickedness to his tone when he makes a point of asking, “So what sells papers in Diamond City these days besides chems in the streets, crime in the seats, and dishing all the dirty details _Mayor McDonough’s_ hiding?

“Nah, don't answer. I know why you're really here. Of course a tell-all exposé on why some pre-war hot shit would shack up with one of my kind will rake it in.” Hancock’s direct when he cares to be, and as a publication dedicated to the truth there's no denying that this issue will end up in the hands of a wider readership. “Well fuck if I can explain it,” he continues. His gravelly laugh spreads through the room like the dust from a mini nuke. “Most humans who want to walk on the wild side with a ghoul are looking to feed a fetish, you feel me. But my gal? Hell, she said all the right things and made me believe it. All the way down to my fucking bones.”

Hancock stares into the middle distance again. It’s not the drugs this time putting a dreamy look on his face, it’s the aura of the truly smitten, which seems uncomfortably rare these days.

“Gorgeous, deadly, persuasive-- there aren't too many people who can lay claim to all three without some serious downside. Take that freak Pickman for example. Yeah, you know what I’m talking about. My woman though, she earned some respect when she walked into this town and didn’t take shit from that loser Finn, but this? I never saw this coming,” Hancock waves a hand vaguely in the air around him. “Lost my heart in the only way I wasn't expecting.”

From her post near the door, his bodyguard lights up a cigarette. Fahrenheit has her own reputation, and offers a brusque, “Don’t look at me; I don’t care who the boss fucks.” After taking a long drag, she adds: “But I’ll admit she does a good job of watching Hancock’s back when I’m not around.”

Self-appointed or not, Goodneighbor’s mayor has been spending a lot of time away from the town. “It's better for everyone in the long term,” he explains. “When you're in charge, getting too comfortable means problems don't get taken care of.”

There's the sense that he's talking about the problems in Diamond City, where missing persons and the synth threat go virtually ignored by the government.

“Besides, look at me. This is getting embarrassing. Gotta get that thrill of a new drug outta my system. Fahrenheit might not give a shit who I bring to bed, but people in town are getting a little too nosy.” Hancock scrapes his teeth over his bottom lip. His black eyes narrow to slivers. “Better to air all the dirty details with you lot instead of being stopped all the time for shit that ain't important.”

Dirty details hadn't been the goal in requesting this interview but it's where Hancock offers the most access. Whether or not they're welcome inside the walls of DC, ghouls are a permanent fixture of the commonwealth, and their resistance to rads make them an important part of trade and commerce. And though some ghouls have been around since the war, our doctors still don't know much about how they tick. It might come as a surprise to some to even know that ghouls have a sex drive.

“People always want to know what's in your pants. When you're a ghoul they got all kinds of questions about what still works, and what doesn't.”

Hancock’s mouth pulls to one side in amusement. He gestures to his groin. “Rads fixed some of this right up, to be honest. Didn't do a whole lot of bumping uglies when I was human and getting high. Sucking dick on the other hand--”

He trails off and grabs a carton of cigarettes that's clean enough to be worth a few hundred caps. He rips open a fresh pack and pats down his pockets for a light. Fahrenheit steps over to produce one seemingly straight from her fingertips. The way Hancock brings the stick to his lips goes beyond suggestive. “If you like getting a mouthful of cock, it makes for an easy way to score. When you’ve ditched your gag reflex by going ghoul and don't need to breathe as often, well, you can imagine.”

Holding the cigarette between his fingers, Hancock rubs the edge of his thumb against his lip. “Bet your readers don't know much about what it's like to fuck a ghoul, do they. Diamond City likes so much to pretend it's the be all end all of the civilized.” He's quiet for a time, the crackle of burning tobacco the only sound in the room for a stretch. “Humans can be so fragile.”

So what is it like?

“Upsides, downsides. For the most part it just takes a little longer to get the juices going.” Hancock launches into the sort of detail our editor didn't feel comfortable printing. Finishing his cigarette down to the filter, he adds a crude, “Stamina’s never been better. Not having a nose when wearing a lady’s thighs as earmuffs can be a drag....”

While the messier parts of the act might be what the public wants to know the most about, the bigger question is: What happens over time? Relationships between ghouls and humans by virtue of lifespan simply aren't made to last.

“The woman went from surviving the war in a freezer to raising up a whole chain of settlements. If anyone is going to find a way to live forever, or hell, ditch the smooth skin and come over to my side, it's her.” Hancock reaches for a different inhaler on the table. “And if not-- If things go south, I'll find something to numb the pain.”


End file.
